Antiques Swap

by Barbara Allan

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Pewter, about six inches high, running boars. I can e-mail you a photo.”

  “Ah . . . yeah. Sounds interesting. Do that. I can access it on my phone.”

  He called right back, his tone far friendlier now.

  “Brandy, that beer stein goes for two hundred dollars and up. The market’s a little soft right now, but I’ll gladly give you three.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. It’ll make a super addition to my collection.”

  “That’d be great. Oh, but Mother promised a regular customer a first looky-loo tomorrow morning. But if we price it at the three hundred you’ve offered, he might pass. And if he doesn’t want it, it’s yours.”

  “Kind of you, Brandy.”

  “Consider it an olive branch.”

  “Do you have the stein there at the shop?”

  “Yes. You want to come by for a better look?”

  “No, I’ve got meetings all afternoon. Just let me know tomorrow, if your customer passes.”

  “You got it,” I replied, and ended the call.

  Now we three were waiting in the dark, our trap baited with the beer stein positioned prominently on the counter, easily visible through the two front windows.

  Mother and I felt reasonably sure that Wes would come in through the front, the house being set back from the residential street, its low porch overhang providing dark cover. In back, an alley-pole light directly behind the structure shone brightly. Still, the rear door was a possibility, so we would stay alert. Either way, we were tucked behind the counter out of sight.

  “I’m not sure he’ll show at all,” Tony said softly.

  “Oh, he’ll be along,” Mother said.

  “I don’t know. He’s a businessman, isn’t he? He’ll figure the shop will have a security system.”

  Mother shook her head. “But we didn’t set it.”

  Tony goggled at her. “And he’s to know that how?”

  “Tish-tosh. Even with a security system, he’ll look through that window, see the beer stein on the counter, break in, grab it, and make his getaway, long before anyone can react to an alarm, silent or otherwise.”

  “Vivian . . .” Tony began, irritably.

  But I said, “Quiet, you two. Do you want to talk over the break-in?”

  As the hours began to pass, Mother’s optimism seemed to wane, and she fell asleep, her snoring thankfully subdued in her sitting position. I rested my head on Tony’s shoulder and soon was visiting the Land of Nod myself.

  Suddenly Tony nudged me awake.

  I nudged Mother, who snorted to alertness.

  The beam of a flashlight light-sabered through a front window, moving slowly across the room, scanning the area, then settling on the beer stein on the counter just above us.

  At the sound of breaking glass, Tony moved into a crouch, getting his gun out. Then the revolver was in one hand and mag light in the other.

  Fear spiked through me, and Mother looked electrified, eyes wide and glistening behind large lenses, waiting eagerly for what would happen next.

  The door opened. Footsteps broached the short distance to the counter. A black-gloved hand reached for the beer stein, then picked it up, and that’s when Tony stood.

  “Right there is fine.”

  I heard a startled yelp, then two clunks, which must have been the beer stein and Wes’s flashlight hitting the floor.

  Mother, disobeying Tony’s orders to remain hidden till an arrest had been made, Jack-in-the-boxed up.

  “Well, heavens to Murgatroyd!” she exclaimed. “It’s Travis Thompson!”

  I stood, too, surprised to see that the intruder caught in Tony’s mag-light beam was in fact the real estate developer, his rugged features catching noir-ish shadows in the harsh illumination.

  “Hands on the counter,” Tony said, gun trained on the guy.

  Travis complied, as Tony moved around to pat him down.

  Mother crossed to a wall switch, turning on the overhead light.

  Tony—his search bringing forth no weapons, the intruder’s pockets empty—put an annoyed-looking, vaguely embarrassed Travis in handcuffs, then stepped back and read him his rights.

  Then Tony said, “Of course, Mr. Thompson, if you’d like to explain yourself, we’re glad to listen.”

  Travis shook his head scowlingly, eyes on the floor. “Not saying a word without my lawyer.”

  “Your privilege. You can call him from the station.” Tony looked my way. “Leave everything as is. I’ll send someone over to take photos of the broken window and the beer stein.”

  The latter was on the floor, looking none the worse for the trip.

  He gave us a small, tight smile. “Looks like we have our killer.”

  Tony escorted Travis out, and Mother and I followed, watching from the porch in frowning confusion as he put the real estate developer in the backseat of his unmarked car at the curb.

  As Tony drove off with his charge, I asked, “So were we wrong about Wes?”

  “Apparently so. But we did catch the killer.”

  “Did we?”

  She turned my way, still frowning. “What troubles you, dear?”

  “Probably the same things that’re troubling you, if you’ll admit it. Let’s start with Travis’s reaction. Shouldn’t he have been scared?”

  Mother shrugged. “He was scared. He yelped.”

  “Sure, in surprise. But I mean, after that. It was more like he was . . . mad.”

  “What perpetrator wouldn’t be, falling into a clever trap like the one we set? Anything else, dear? Let’s not kick victory in the teeth.”

  “Why wasn’t Travis carrying any car keys?”

  She had to think about that for a few seconds. Then: “Likely because he left them in the ignition, for a fast getaway.”

  “With the car doors unlocked? And risk it being stolen? And do you see a car out there with its motor running?”

  Mother’s eyes popped. “I’ve got it! He didn’t have keys because—”

  “Somebody drove him. Right.”

  I trotted down the porch steps and out to the front walk, where I looked up and down the street.

  The houses were dark and quiet, owners snug in their wee little beds, oblivious to the dramatic doings that had just taken place in our shop.

  The cars on the street were parked nearly bumper to bumper, silently slumbering like metallic beasts.

  But then one of those beasts awoke, a particularly sleek one, its dash and headlights snapping on, the vehicle pulling away from the curb, engine roaring as it sped past.

  I called back to Mother. “That was Wes’s Jaguar! He brought Travis! To do his bidding!”

  Mother was at my side in an eye blink. “It’s just like that scoundrel to let one of his pals do his dirty work for him.”

  “Actually, this is the first time. He really did kill his wife and Mrs. Fowler.”

  “I believe you’re right, dear . . . but tonight he sensed the possibility of a trap . . . and sent a stalking horse in to cover that contingency!”

  My cell call to Tony went straight to voice mail, so I called the dispatcher to get word to him.

  Mother was saying, “We mustn’t let Wes get away! He saw Travis being taken to the station. And as we Brits say, he’ll do a runner.”

  No time to remind Mother she wasn’t a Brit.

  I said, “He must be heading to the airport.”

  “To the Batmobile, dear!”

  Suddenly I was Burt Ward again.

  “What about the shop? Lock it up?”

  “Never mind—the photographer will be here presently. Now chivvy along, dear!”

  Maybe she was British at that. Have to take a closer look at the Danish family tree....

  The Caddy was parked a few blocks up the hill on a quiet side street, the classic ride’s convertible top up, to (as Mother put it) “prevent mischief from thieves and vandals.” It took a few minutes to get there because
Mother wasn’t moving as fast as once she had—not since her double hip replacement.

  Then I was behind the wheel, Mother riding shotgun, heading toward the riverfront, then barreling south on River Road.

  Even with pedal to the metal, getting to the Municipal Airport would take ten minutes, anyway. And Wes might well be long gone. Still, we had to try. . . .

  We were singularly quiet as we sped along, the rolling bluffs turning to flat farmland, headlights cutting through the night like lasers.

  Then there it was, off to the right: Serenity Municipal Airport.

  For years it had been only a Quonset-hut main building with a single hangar, plus one landing strip with wind sock, a facility used only by small-plane aficionados. But after Wes Sinclair bought his Learjet, a modern brick main building suddenly replaced the Quonset hut, several other hangars were added, and the runway was extended. But the wind sock remained.

  I wheeled the Caddy into the small parking lot near the main building, and Mother and I got quickly out.

  Everything was dark and quiet, buildings locked up, runway lights off.

  I said, “Guess maybe we were wrong about Wes coming out here.”

  “It would appear so,” Mother admitted. “But that private jet of his is the logical way for him to make his escape.”

  We were about to get back in the car when the landing strip’s lights popped on, bright as daylight. After hours, this could only be directed from a pilot coming in . . .

  . . . or taking off.

  “Mother—hear that?”

  The high-pitched whine of a jet engine.

  “Yes, dear, that cuts through even my ear-wax buildup!” She pointed. “Over there—that hangar door is open.”

  Excitement ran through me like chills. “What should we do?”

  “I don’t know, dear—something. The fiend’ll get away otherwise. Some foreign land, and with his money—”

  “Get in the car,” I said.

  We got in the Caddy and I tooled it out of the parking lot and along an access road leading to the hangars, with the main runway looming beyond.

  The Learjet had exited its hangar, making its way to the strip. I caught up with the plane, then zoomed ahead of it, continuing on out to the runway.

  Mother said, “If you’re about to do what I think you might, I am quite in agreement. It’s a bold move and I’m proud of your reckless abandon!”

  “Thank you.” Her praise in that regard meant a lot to me. Who knew more about reckless abandon than Vivian Borne?

  Halfway down the lighted strip, I slowed the car, then swung it sideways with a screech of tires so that the Caddy was blocking the runway.

  We got out and stood by the car in a sort of two-woman challenge to the man who thought so little of our sex that he used and swapped and killed them.

  The Learjet was poised for takeoff.

  Would Wes attempt it anyway?

  The answer came quickly as the high-pitched engine noise increased, and the jet rolled toward us, picking up speed.

  “Run, Mother!” I yelled. “Run!”

  I grabbed her hand and we sprinted to the adjacent field, dropping down to the ground, twisting our necks around to see the jet, engines screaming, bear down on the Caddy.

  A second before impact, the jet’s nose jerked upward, its front wheel clearing the car. Wes was making a break for it and there was nothing to be done, our best effort, however reckless, a failure....

  Then a back wheel caught the underside of the Caddy’s cloth-and-metal-frame convertible top, lifting the car off the ground. Then the top snapped off, the Caddy dropping back to the runway, roughly, as did the jet ahead of it, off-balance and out of control now, careening down the remainder of the runway and coming to an abrupt halt, its nose shoved in the dirt like a bullied child.

  Sirens screamed, distant at first but quickly upon us, and more lights cut across the runway, headlights, as a trio of police cars sped toward us.

  Helping Mother to her feet, I said, “I’m afraid the godfather’s car’s a goner, Mother.”

  Mother adjusted her brown wig which had gone askew, and—smiling through misting eyes—replied, “A sacrifice worth making, dear. A sacrifice worth making.... I wonder if we’re insured in case of aircraft collision?”

  The rest was anticlimactic—Tony emerging from a police car, gun in hand, as a slump-shouldered Wes Sinclair came down out of his plane without incident, hands up, his face a slack-jawed mask of defeat. As Tony led him to a vehicle flashing red and blue, Wes didn’t even glance our way. We were unimportant now, Mother and I, just two women who, like all women, didn’t matter to him at all.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Smart shoppers haggle. The amount listed on a price tag should be the starting point for negotiating a better deal. And if you have the ability—as does Vivian Borne—to really wear down a seller, a world of bargains awaits you.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Late Play

  (Hand that is played after the event has finished.)

  When thoughts become actions, those actions can have consequences—sometimes good, sometimes bad.

  It was August now, and two months had passed since Wes

  Sinclair was pulled out of his bunged-up Learjet, to be charged with the murders of his wife Vanessa and of blackmailer Gladys Fowler.

  This time around, Wes didn’t do so well at the preliminary hearing—turned out there was usable forensic evidence on the beer stein (maybe Mother and I should start watching CSI), and a silk blue tie found beneath the front seat of Wes’s Jaguar matched microscopic fibers imbedded in Mrs. Fowler’s neck.

  So Wes, now with a very expensive out-of-town lawyer at his side, got his original wish—he would be going to trial, this time facing two first-degree murder charges.

  Sean Hartman got six months for assaulting Mother—a relatively light charge, taking into consideration that this was the broker’s first offense. But his real punishment would be disgrace and a ruined business.

  Travis Thompson received an even lighter sentence for his breaking and entering, the district attorney unable to substantiate that the real estate developer had prior knowledge of either murder, or that the beer stein he was dispatched to retrieve was evidence. Travis stuck to his story that he was doing an ill-advised favor for a friend without knowing the reason behind that favor.

  I know—lame. But Travis’s real estate partners forced him out, while wife Emily sued him for divorce, moving with her daughter into a condo. Tiffany Hartman filed for a divorce, as well, packing up a U-haul and heading back east, to wait for her share of community property.

  After his, yes, sybaritic lifestyle came to light, Brent Morgan—at the urging of the board of the bank’s directors—resigned as president of the Serenity First National. He alone of the Eight of Clubs men landed on his feet, however, relocating to the Chicago area at another bank, his wife Megan sticking by him. But somehow I thought the only swing set Megan might endorse at this point would be in their backyard for their two boys.

  As for the Borne girls, we did not emerge from the experience unscathed, although Mother’s hair was growing back nicely (she was still alternating various Playhouse wigs). Our involvement in bringing down the Eight of Clubs came with a surprising backlash: a number of folks were irked with us. As it happened, some Serenityites had long despised both Vanessa Sinclair and Gladys Fowler, and while no one said in public that those two women got what they deserved, the general feeling was that our meddling had ruined the lives of three prominent couples and disrupted the local economy along the way.

  Mother took this in stride. “No good deed goes unpunished, dear! What’s important is that the bad deeds of Mr. Wesley Sinclair are not going unpunished.”

  On this hot August morning, I was heading to the police station in our new blue Ford C-Max hybrid. Yes, our new car!

  Remember the swap-meet/car-show guy who wanted to buy the Caddy? Well, he still wanted to, even though it had been
dragged by a Learjet. Of course we did have to come down on the price quite a bit, and did not get anything out of our insurance claim except giving the adjuster a big laugh.

  The C-Max took some getting used to. For one thing, I had trouble remembering the order in which to do things to start the thing. For another, every time I stopped at a light, I thought the engine had stalled, and tried to restart it. But it’s good for the environment, so if you wreck your car on a landing strip when a Learjet tears its roof off, I can recommend the C-Max.

  And despite not being used to the vehicle, I managed to make it to the police station with both it and myself in one piece (I guess that would be two pieces).

  For once I was not stopping at the station to bail Mother out of a holding cell or otherwise deal with some aspect of an investigation of hers (ours). Not that this was any more pleasant: I was here to see Brian, who was leaving the department tomorrow, having taken a job in the Chicago area, after losing the top cop slot to Tony.

  Things had gotten ugly when Brian accused Tony of dereliction of duty by running an “unofficial investigation with Vivian and Brandy Borne.” It hadn’t gotten him anywhere, since the district attorney was in the local camp that was glad we’d brought Wes, Travis, and Sean to justice.

  Still, Brian and I had meant something to each other once, not so long ago, and despite his carping about Tony helping us, Brian too had been helpful to Mother and me in several of our prior murder inquiries. So I very much wanted to say good-bye.

  And very much didn’t want to.

  Inside the station, I walked over to the Plexiglas and asked dispatcher Heather to tell Brian I was here, and would like to see him. As per usual, the redhead with red eyeglass frames told me to take a seat in the waiting area, and also per usual I obeyed, sitting next to the ever-neglected rubber tree plant.

  Too quickly, Heather called me back over.

  “I’m afraid he’s busy,” she said.

  “Meaning,” I said, mostly to myself, “he doesn’t want to see me.”